


Observation

by makesoneheavenly



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Decay, Dr Eckleburg's and Owl Eye's perspective, POV Third Person Omniscient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesoneheavenly/pseuds/makesoneheavenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Beneath him sprawls the civilised man, cloaked in a powdery ash, the result of a thousand decades of decaying into the pure solitude of a well-constructed consciousness."</p>
<p>Those who were always there but never spoke a word. Dr T.J Eckleburg and Owl Eye's give some perspective</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observation

**Author's Note:**

> This is little something I wrote for school, I know it is extremely short but I just felt I should post it. Fingers crossed no one from my class ever finds this.

Beneath him sprawls the civilised man, cloaked in a powdery ash, the result of a thousand decades of decaying into the pure solitude of a well-constructed consciousness. He deeply ponders upon an age of times long past when these same creatures did not painfully drag their souls across chilling manufactured grounds and did not delve to inspect too closely at their burning septic wounds, bursting with the infection of questions he cannot answer.

But this Dr T.J Eckleburg is not secluded in his bitter observation, his spectacle-clad azure irises find their twin in an owl of a man with similar glass wound around his head, these smudged thick windows that each sees out of give a confronting clarity that neither wishes he had witnessed. 

Down below in that winding valley bathed in dust Dr Eckleburg spies among the stinking masses a pristine trio, flaunting their unearned fortune with a recklessness that seems to inhabit the young. A woman lustfully swaying her body with an explicit sensuality, fleshy thighs exposed and pale freckled breasts spilling from her bright bodice, a woman who longs for nothing but the secret pleasures found between dampened sheets. And around her lithe form is wrapped the thick arm of a bull of a man, his innate brutality barely masked by the costly fabric in which he is clothed, arrogance and pride exuding from his pores with every stretch of those muscular legs. And softly treading along beside the couple is a whisper of a man, barely gracing the unholy earth with his pure presence, a silent onlooker and his fretful torture is understood.

Upon those lonely spheres that bob ungracefully across the clear water, the nights serenity is shattered abruptly by a raucous screeching and thundering eagerness as an orgy of alcohol and youth ensues under a glowing sliver of moon. Among the trembling chaos away from the thrumming consistent noise, amidst those flimsy tomes stacked precariously high in a room of deafening silence, there staggers an a owl, or a man, who has hooted himself into a drunken haze of acceptance. His breakable fingers dance over the smooth spines of a thousand novels, his glassy eyes question the validity of their existence just as a sluggish mind had questioned not an hour past, the answer he had formulated had led him to plucking up another bitter glass. The naive humans surround his astonished vessel, gorging themselves with an uncontrollable gluttony and peeling layers away from their sweating shaking bodies, indulging in the vices of the most sacrilegious kind, how far they have fallen. The old owl finds his lonely musings interrupted as a pair tumble ungracefully into his presence, and within one he sights swirling dark eyes riddled with the crippling loneliness of one who sees and the owl forces his rigid mind to erase the haunting memory.

Darkness was seeping over the valley below Dr Eckleburg's unrelenting gaze when sharp seething voices seep out from shadowy places unknown. A wild creature dances out into the dusty desolate road, her choking voice twisted into a thousand others by the work of unforgiving reverberations, her ghostly arms writhing in the disappearing luminosity when, unwaveringly, a streak of familiar yellow collides with her fragile body. She lays without peace upon the unquiet earth and under a heathen golden halo, her voluminous chest slashed violently open, vibrant scarlet crawling over one creamy, mutilated breast while that once thrumming wet heart now spluttered into an eternal stagnation. Her hesitant soul finally departed strugglingly to eternal divinity from this coughing ditch of cruel sediment. A scurrying group of pasty onlookers stubbornly interrupt her graceless death and for many minutes her vacated body remains unmoved below those unblinking blue eyes, shaded cerulean in the pitchy gloom.

A sparse funeral for a soul he never knew, just acknowledged him as a name, a fantasy carved into empty skulls, and a rather spectacular house combined with a hospitality that was constantly in abuse. It would be right to blame the snivelling grieving husband, filled with wrath, who had dragged his breaking body through opaque air, brittle hand slimy with perspiration wrapped around a solid gun, avenging the loss of one who never loved him anyway. A man who had rashly accepted his own fate and his own god like the unfortunate fool he did prove to be. A single hot chunk of ruthless lead had been projected by his hand into the stony skull of a man who had floated, hopeless, upon a minute island of lost breaths skimming the surface of his own personal manufactured ocean. The echoing blast had travelled without deviation through his body, rupturing the safe seal of golden skin, and turned the reflective clear liquid into a revolting swirling eddying concoction as it mingled with those red tears the flesh weeps upon revelation. The empty dismal cavity drilled into the back of his mind was filled with water, the godless musings that conscious once had dared to entertain was purged and purified through untainted tears of the skies. The soul of a wretch who had been hardened and fractured by an endless war, one who had once extended in envy towards a distant emerald light now dissolved from this tormented existence into an eternity of comfortable numbness.  
So as he pays his fabricated respects to a sack of pulpy innards that was once a human being, he cannot help but reach to remove those heavy amber spectacles sitting atop his crooked nose. He looks without obstruction into the ashen face of a man who knows true suffering and fearfully finds that he is facing an uncanny reflection of himself, for this man hunched and sobbing before him knows the agony of existing as a voiceless observer.


End file.
